


Guilt that Remains

by ade_wolf_97



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Music, One can only wander on the beach for so long, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ade_wolf_97/pseuds/ade_wolf_97
Summary: There was music.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 52





	Guilt that Remains

There was music.

Normally, Aragorn wouldn’t have questioned it. Music was as important to the people of Middle Earth as the very air they breathed. Even in the late hours of the night there was gentle song in the air as wives coaxed their husbands and children to sleep. One could hardly walk through the streets of Minas Tirith without hearing some sort of melody, regardless of the time or day.

But he wasn’t walking through the streets of Minas Tirith.

After a late-night dream that had awoken him amidst a horrid scene, he’d slipped away (so as not to wake Arwen) to walk along the sandy coasts behind the city. Something about them was calming. Perhaps it was the calling of the elves, with whom he was raised. Or the longing for something that his own ancestors could never have.

And there was singing.

Off in the distance, to his right. North of the city.

That’s why he was questioning it. Travelers by boat never frequented these shores; the large rocks scattered in the sand proved dangerous. The distance between Gondor and any other kingdom was great enough, too, that adventurers always stopped to ask for lodging. They didn’t stand on the beaches and sing.

The song was gentle, as whomever it was was likely only singing for themselves. He wasn’t close enough yet to understand the words, but he could hear the melody nonetheless. Aragorn nearly found himself in a trance. Whoever was singing clearly had their experience. It was beautiful—the soft ease with which the melody rose and fell, the pure emotion seeming to ring through the notes.

Forgetful of his dream, he found himself following it, curious. Not only to know why someone was in the realm of Gondor but had not yet made their way to the city, but also to hear their song, to know who it could be. He was guided by moonlight, reflecting off the transparent waters of the ocean at his side.

Aragorn could make out some of the words, as he drew ever closer.

... _almárëandor taitë Endamar,_

_Urcalma calina tiënya apa sercë pacatië._

_Sí hlarnyë en ramaita sítë vérahosnya,_

_“Ana ulcumetta illi engwë mendë pirita.”_

He found himself finally at a break in the stones, a wide sanded bay greeting him. And, in the middle of the clearing, with waves lapping at his feet, was an elf. He was walking towards the stones behind which Aragorn hid, lips gently forming the slow melody that wove through the quiet ambience of waves and light wind. Of course; only one of such heritage could sing so beautifully.

Elves never found themselves this far South, save for the Battle of Helm’s Deep in the year before, and the final fight against Sauron during the second age. Not without purpose. Though, this soul, alone, seemed simply a wanderer. He was clothed in garments reminiscent of old years in Imladris (Aragorn had seen his fair share in the museum of the main hall and the old history books), though mildly worn and tattered. A long tunic in a shade of midnight blue, the edges trimmed in silver. What armor he did wear was dark, though this too was decorated with lightly swirled designs of silver. The cloak he wore was more of a shawl, draped over his shoulders and reaching down to his hips, and clasped with a small ornament that Aragorn recognized as the Fëanorian Star. He had a harp held under his left arm, though he wasn’t using it. A small dagger on the belt at his waist served as his only weapon. His hair was long, dark, reflecting the pale moonlight in a faint shimmer that seemed to accent the color. And he was wearing a modestly jeweled circlet. As far as Aragorn knew, only those of some sort of royalty were given that honor.

Aragorn listed off the remaining nobility that he knew of. He bore the star of Fëanor, and so had to be from Rivendell.

Elrond, Celebrian, Elladan and Elrohir, Arwen. Glorfindel was given an honorary title, and so his foster son, Lindir, was often also counted among the royals. But this elf was none of them.

_Mar hánonya a inyë tirlmë sinandor,_

_Turmalmë hyes ho rúsëita Angband._

_Apa as maica má inyë lemba nandënya._

_Sië lalar Silmaril ëa martyambarnya._

He stopped in his tracks, turning towards the ocean. Aragorn followed his gaze to a bright star hanging near the horizon. It was the star said to be formed by one of the legendary Silmarils thousands of years before. It was one of the tales Elrond and Glorfindel had told him often. As a child, he couldn’t believe the people he lived with had experienced such incredible things themselves. Now, though, he had his own adventures to tell.

Aragorn was compelled to step forward, to attempt to comfort him. To perhaps ask him who he was. Many questions, burning under the surface and begging to be asked and answered. But the pure sorrow of his song made that feat seem impossible.

_Palanan accando samnyë úcarindo síssë,_

_Solmë sovoa vanwië cáma i lemya..._

And then he stopped. Halfway through a verse, the old elvish still hanging in the air. The final words were repeated in a whisper; _cáma i lemya_ , ‘guilt that remains.’ At first, Aragorn was worried he’d been noticed. He was already making up excuses in his head, far-fetched reasons that he was out here, alone. Not noticing the irony of that statement. But then the elf dropped to his knees, the water around him sent up in a stir. His head fell, shoulders faintly shaking as a quietly broken cry pressed through his teeth. Aragorn couldn’t hold back any longer. Elves were meant to be stoic, strong, passionate. Not regretful or broken. He stepped around the large stone, approached the elf, ready to leap back should he be perceived as a threat. There was no response, even as Aragorn found himself directly behind him. So he slowly reached out a hand, and placed it on the elf’s shoulder. He tensed under the touch, but didn’t reach for his knife. Nor did he speak.

“I wish I could understand the sorrow you sing of, friend,” Aragorn said softly, in the native tongue of Sindarin.

The elf was silent, for a moment. He lowered his head. “Those who have not lived it cannot imagine it,” he answered, in matching Sindarin, though with a faint accent that almost seemed to match that of Lord Elrond’s.

Aragorn knelt next to him. The brokenness of the elf’s tone, even as he spoke, seemed a window into his past. Loss, heartbreak. Longing. Something Aragorn could see in himself, to an extent.

“I may not compare,” Aragorn began, allowing his own gaze to wander to the distant horizon, “but my own father was slain before my eyes when I was young.”

The elf finally raised his head, Aragorn caught in his peripheral vision. The waves crashed. A soft sigh was released, then a short inhale. Breathing shaky, as if holding back tears. “I had six brothers.”

He needed not elaborate further; Aragorn could easily enough put two and two together. The singing, his clear elven heritage, the word _had_. He dipped his head in respectful empathy. “I am sure they eagerly await you on the shores of Valinor.”

The elf let loose a wet, humorless laugh. “And yet I cannot go to them.”

Upon the question hanging in the air, the elf quietly elaborated, now (likely unknowingly) reverting to an older form of Sindarin. “Today was the day, years ago, the last of my brothers was slain,” he spoke softly, as if afraid his voice would betray him, “a boy whom I had taken in was with me and I swore to him I would not leave were he not by my side.”

“Your compassion is admirable.” Aragorn finally met the elf’s gaze. Sparkling blue eyes stared back at him, shining behind the wetness of held back tears, like waves on the very ocean they knelt beside. They reflected something Aragorn had only ever seen in youth; unknown happiness, a desire for something beyond reach. And, yet, overpowering was evident years of knowledge, a dwelling sadness. Loneliness. But, surely...

“You have found comfort in this boy, have you not?”

The elf averted his gaze, and Aragorn felt a strange desire to search further into the depths of his eyes. To understand what he saw in them. The wisdom this elf must hold, if he spent so long on this world...

“I watched over him for a time.” The following of his statement was somewhat predictable. “But when he made the decision to remain in Imladris, I could not...the presence of so many reminded me of my brothers, among other things. I had to leave.”

He was from Imladris, then. Or, at least, had been there. In the many years Aragorn had spent there, he remembered not meeting this stranger before. “Forgive my bluntness. I was raised in Imladris.” A sideways glance spoke the question of his clear Human heritage, but no words left the elf’s mouth. “Perhaps I know of this boy. May I ask for your name?”

“I have not been addressed by any in... a very long time.” He smiled faintly as he spoke next. “But I used to answer to Makalaurë, or Kanafinwë. Most called me Maglor.”

From the stories. The gentler son of Fëanor, who favored his music over fighting, much to the contrast of his brothers. The very elf who had taken in Lord Elrond and his brother upon discovering him that fateful day. The one who remained in Middle Earth after the rest of his family had departed. Who must have spent several thousand years upon the world, more of them alone than in the company of his family. The gentlest, but also the strongest.

“Your gaze lies on me yet you do not speak.” Maglor’s voice rang out once more, softly.

Aragorn looked away, embarrassed. “I apologize.” He smiled. “I know of you.”

“You do?”

“Elrond raised me alongside his daughter and sons.”

Silence answered him then, and he glanced back up to see Maglor’s lips parted in evident surprise. “Daughter and sons,” he repeated in a whisper.

Was he unaware? Surely he had been to visit his adopted son sometime in the past three-thousand years. Surely stories had at least passed to his ears of the feats of Elrond’s twin sons, of his daughter’s engagement to the heir of Isildur. Surely he had not spent so long on these shores, utterly alone...

And, yet, clearly, he had. Aragorn watched him sadly as his gaze fell down to the harp in his hands. He began quietly plucking a few of the strings, though it sounded less of a song and more of a simple way to busy his fingers as his thoughts wandered.

“I can introduce you to his daughter, if you so wish,” Aragorn said, “as she is my wife, and lives with me in the city just over this hill.”

Maglor shook his head, not looking up. “I am sure she and any other relatives of Elrond’s would rather not see me.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows rose in confused surprise. “Why ever not?”

Though even as he spoke his question, the nature of Maglor’s comment came to light.

In the stories, it was told that Maglor, alongside his older brother, had searched to fulfill their oath in retrieving a Silmaril rumored to be held by Elrond’s family. When it was not given up to them willingly, they had drawn their swords and slain them all, finding no gem in their pillaging. Maglor had been the one to find a young Elrond and Elros, playing in a waterfall nearby, and his heart had taken hold. He convinced his brother that they should care for them and effectively took them in. Aragorn could clearly see the window for guilt. Murder of the family and kidnapping of the sons? Regardless of whether the boys grew to love them or not... but that was just it. Aragorn knew better. “Elrond has only ever spoken of you in longing kindness.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Aragorn ignored his comment. “He wants to see you again. He wants to speak with you, to introduce you to his family.”

“I think you are mistaken,” Maglor insisted, “he could not possibly want such things.”

Aragorn bit his lip for a brief moment in consideration. “If my word as Elrond’s charge does not count,” he said pointedly, “perhaps it will as a descendant of his brother, Elros.”

The breath left Maglor in a quick exhale. His eyes darting over Aragorn’s form, from his ears to his knees, then up to his eyes. The eyes that were said to remain a constant match down the endless line of heritage. A uniquely silver-grey, like the outline of a star in the night sky. “You lie.” Though even as he spoke it, it was evident he didn’t believe himself. “You cannot possibly be...”

“How else would you explain my childhood amongst the elves?” He gestured to his round ears.

Aragorn belatedly noticed that the quiet harp music had halted. Maglor’s hands were frozen in place, hovering inches above the strings. He said nothing, but his now slacken shoulders spoke in place of his words. Resignation.

Aragorn had just opened his mouth to speak and change the subject when Maglor’s voice reached his ears. “What’s your name?”

“Aragorn.” His head dipped respectfully, instinctively. “Though the elves of Imladris called me Estel.”

A hesitant hand raised, fingertips brushing lightly against Aragorn’s cheekbone, just under his eyes. Maglor‘s gaze was locked with Aragorn’s own, reading into his eyes, as if attempting to piece together years of history. Just as much reading his heritage through the historically recognizable misty-gray.

He held his stance, and his current connection with the elf in front of him, firmly. “I have long desired to meet the one who looked after my ancestors.”

“Two,” Maglor whispered, blinking as if with the intent to look away, “there was Maedhros, too.”

There was a shift—not physically, but an evident emotionally. They remained still, but Maglor’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, the ocean behind shining irises clouding over with a thunderstorm of darkness. Aragorn’s head tilted to the side.

A soft breeze blew overhead, carrying a gentle whisper. _Take care of him._ Remaining still, Aragorn allowed his mind to wander after the words. Someone who loved Maglor, of course. Only would such be concerned about the wellbeing of someone who had spent years wandering on his own. Looking out for no one but himself. Or perhaps not even that... A blessing from the Valar? From Manwë? Or a message from one of his forsaken brothers?

Regardless, Aragorn would oblige.

Aragorn rose to his feet, stretching out his hand. Gently, he coaxed, “come with me.”

The world itself froze. Awaiting an answer. The pause in a piece of music before it picks up again. The moment before a wave crashes onto the shore. Maglor’s breathing was ragged, uneven. He blinked, eyes shining with tears once again. “Why would you forgive me?”

Aragorn leveled his gaze. “Because there is nothing to forgive. Because you were only ever kind, and loyal. You only deserve the best from us.”

The beat fell. The wave hit. Stars glittered overhead, whether in anger or joy, Aragorn wasn’t sure. Maglor finally tore his gaze away, head lowering, shoulders tensing in aching harmony with a shuddering sob. A hand instinctively rising, hovering in front of his chest, his heart. Aragorn gently, oh so carefully, took the elf’s hand in his own, pulled him to his feet. There was no resistance.

Elves were meant to be stoic. Strong and passionate. Not broken. Not regretful. Yet, it would only be sensible to assume that they live too. Despite the stereotypes, the rumors.

The very existence of Maglor lived to prove them wrong.

Aragorn carefully gathered Maglor into his arms, drawing him close, weaving a hand into his hair to gently massage his head. Just like with Eldarion when he would find himself upset over something small, when he would trip and scrape a knee. Like Arwen when the stresses of living without her father would hang over her. Like Elladan and Elrohir when the weight of their actions in war just managed to spill over the surface.

And Maglor clung to him.

Hands gripping his cloak, countless years of held back emotions bubbling to the surface. The ocean had shifted, splashing waves slamming into the rocks near them, though miraculously avoiding them. Low bellowing cries from underwater creatures served as a mournful background music.

“I’ve got you,” a soft murmur, a hopeful comfort, “you won’t be alone anymore.”

Even as his cries quieted and his shudders dissipated into faint quaking of his hands, Aragorn held him. No different from comforting his family.

_Because he is family._

The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, sending a splash of orange and violet into the ocean, when Maglor finally pulled away from the embrace. He managed a small smile. A luxury Aragorn hadn’t yet seen. And Aragorn smiled in return. A silent exchange. He took a step away from the seaside, hand outstretched. There was no hesitance as Maglor reached out his own hand and took it.

Aragorn led him away.

The waves were calm. The birds chirped a sweet, joyful song as they flew overhead. A lone star hung on the horizon, glimmering, the brightest of them all. A breeze blew by.

_Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the stories I’ve written that I’m the proudest of. Thanks so very much for reading it!!! <3
> 
> I can’t promise the Quenya is completely accurate; it took my inexperienced self two hours of word-for-word translation. I could’ve left it in English, but hey, having Maglor sing in Quenya is just a lot more depressing. *wink*
> 
> The song isn’t mine! All credit to the original creators. Here’s the link: https://youtu.be/kGSJnKKa_eo


End file.
